The Final Cut

Liar. He did speak English.

“The lady does not have enough French to follow. We will continue in English.”

He shrugged again, a spark of humor in his eyes. “Oui, cochon.”

Nicholas ignored the insult. “You look a bit like your sister.”

Couverel’s eyes narrowed. “I have no sister.”

“Of course you do. We have DNA matching her to you. Where is she?”

Couverel stared at the table, flicked a nail against the edge.

Nicholas leaned into Couverel’s face. “Listen to me very carefully. You have something I want. In return, I will give you what you want—a transfer to Clairvaux Prison. If you’re truthful, I will make it happen. Lie to me”—Nicholas shrugged, placed his large hands on the table—“you will remain here to sleep with the rats.”

75

Couverel settled deeper into the hard metal chair, chewed on a ragged, cracked lip for a moment, then said quietly, “If you can get me to Clairvaux, I will give you what you want.”

Nicholas said, “Consider it done. You have my word. Now, your sister?”

Mike said, “We need a name, Henri. What was she called?”

“We called her Victoire. We were separated at a young age. She went to live with a family in England; I was left behind. I was old enough to be on my own, she was only a child.”

Victoire. Victoria in English. As Gray Wharton had said, the best lies were always based in truth.

“Our parents left us when she was five. I do not know if they died or were killed or simply did not care anymore. I found out later they were murdered. We were put into the Clesde Champs orphanage and stayed off and on for five years. Victoire had a family who liked her; they took her away, and I have not seen her since.”

“What were your parents’ names?”

“Isobel, she was my mother. My father was Henri as well.”

“Couverel?”

“Oui.”

“And the family who took her?”

“No idea. The woman, she had light hair and eyes. I remember thinking it would be clear Victoire was adopted; she looked nothing like the woman.”

“Victoire Couverel. How old is she?”

“Four years younger than me. I am forty-two.”

Mike was surprised. He looked to be in his late fifties if he was a day.

She said, “And you haven’t seen her since you were fourteen and she was ten?”

“That’s correct.”

“No contact at all?”

“No.” But he looked away, down and to the left as he said it, and they both knew he was lying.

Nicholas crossed his arms. “Clairvaux Prison awaits if you tell us the truth, Henri.”

Couverel sat back in the chair, scratched his neck. Something came off in his fingers; he examined it for a second, then casually flicked it away.

Mike shuddered. Couverel caught the movement and smiled at her. His teeth were crooked but in surprisingly decent shape, considering. His voice was dreamy.

“Do you know they keep Carlos the Jackal at Clairvaux? I should like to meet him. He was here for a time, inside La Santé. But kept isolated. A celebrity. I suppose they didn’t want him to give us ideas.”

Nicholas was getting impatient. “Henri, I’ll make sure you get a personal audience with him, but only if you tell me the truth. When did you see Victoire last? I know you’ve seen her recently, so don’t lie.”

He sniffed and lit a cigarette he’d probably stolen. “I speak the truth. It has been twenty years since I last saw her. She does not care about me, I do not care about her. I have no idea where she is or what she’s done to bring you to me, cochon. I don’t care, either. If you see her, remind her she has a dying brother.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she will send me some money. Or her friend will.”

Nicholas flattened his palms on the table and leaned close. “What do you know of your sister’s friends, Henri?”

His eyes flickered. So this was the lie. He said slowly, unwillingly, “Perhaps I have heard of a man she knows.”

“Go on.”

“He is, how do you say it in English, un fantôme, oui?”

A ghost. Nicholas felt his heart speed up.

“A ghost?” Mike asked. “You mean the man is dead?”

Henri lit a new cigarette from the smoking ember of the old one. He nodded. “Yes, a ghost. But he is not dead.”

“You have to give us a bit more to go on, mate.”

“I ca

“What’s his name?”

Silence.

Yes, Couverel was afraid of this so-called ghost. Who was he?

“Where did she meet him?’

Silence.

Mike said, “Come on, Henri. Help us out.”

“Un fantôme. You look, and you will see.”

“Tell us more about the people who adopted Victoire.”

Couveral didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t meet their eyes.

76

Couverel looked caught between the Devil and a hard place. Nicholas paused at the door, waited for a moment, and, sure enough, Couverel leaped up from his chair but he said nothing.

Nicholas waited, then stood up. “Say good-bye to Clairvaux, Henri.” He turned to Mike. “Let’s go.”

“The family who took Victoire, the man was some kind of missionary. He traveled, to foreign countries. I remember because they asked what sort of shots Victoire had.” He snapped his fingers in disgust. “As if she were a dog they had rescued from the gutter.”

Nicholas had seen Victoria snap her fingers in that same dismissive way in New York, at the Met, while they were still on the same team. Was it simple genetics, or had Henri seen Victoria more recently than he claimed?

Nicholas doubted it, because Couverel wanted Clairvaux more than he was afraid of the ghost. Nicholas rubbed his hand across his chin. He hadn’t had a chance to shave, and the stubble was thick. “Shots. A missionary. Were they taking her back to England, or somewhere else?”

“I do not know. And I swear to you, I know nothing more. Clairvaux—will I go there?”

Nicholas said, “Yes, you will go to Clairvaux.”

Nicholas went to the door and pressed the buzzer. Moments later, Madame Badour appeared, and they stepped from the room. She shuttled them through the first two gates before saying, “It sounds as if you had success.”

Nicholas nodded. “Expect the request to come for his transfer to Clairvaux, but don’t release him to their custody until I give you the go-ahead. I need to make sure the information he gave us was the truth.”

The woman spoke without irony. “You may count on me to do my duty, Monsieur Drummond.”

They wound out of the prison’s heart, through the clanging gates, and she bid them adieu at the cement bench she’d collected them from two hours earlier.

Mike couldn’t get out of the prison fast enough, and she could tell Nicholas was anxious to be gone and follow the lead, too. It wouldn’t take long to verify the information regarding Victoria’s adoption; it would be in the state records. The ghost. Fantôme.

She said, “Couverel said the ghost was Victoire’s friend. I assume you made the co

“Yes, I did. He’s a busy man, this fantôme.”

Mike nodded.” This is the last bit of evidence we need—they have to be partners. And maybe the number she was calling on the plane belongs to him. We can track him through the number.”

“It fits, Mike. Menard told us the Ghost was a retired assassin. No wonder Couverel was so terrified to tell us about him. The fantôme has already murdered five people we know of in the past couple of days. At least he told us enough about her adoptive parents to track them down.”